


The smallest of things

by morbid_riddle



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, The Last Guardian, feels & sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morbid_riddle/pseuds/morbid_riddle
Summary: It's the smallest of things, Khadgar realizes.





	

It’s the smallest of things, Khadgar realizes. The way Medivh’s hands move expressively when he’s explaining something. How the light from the fireplace makes his hair look dark chocolate instead of ebon black. How the color of Medivh’s daily robes makes his skin look paler. How his voice is deeper and more quiet when he’s tired and sleep deprived; how abrupt, but delayed his moves are in that condition. How edgy he looks after spending the whole evening dealing with urgent correspondence. How his mouth is slightly, almost unnoticeably asymmetrical, even when he isn’t smirking.

The thing is, Khadgar notices all of this. Can tell the differences between all Medivh’s moods, knows most of his habits. Catches himself staring mindlessly for minutes at the wrinkles in the corners of Medivh’s eyes or at the way his lips move silently when he’s working on something. Can feel the change in his master’s mood even before Medivh would decide to express it. All those little things that constantly draw Khadgar’s attention, they help him understand.

That he is deeply in love.   

And it is most unfortunate. 

* * *

He decides to approach the problem as usual, like he dealt with all troubles that bothered him during his studies at Dalaran: by analyzing the situation, picking at least two possible options the problem could be solved, and choosing between them after weighting all the pros and cons.

So, Khadgar thinks, he can either stay silent and admire his master from afar, never telling him anything that would go beyond acceptable master/apprentice relationship (it’s the safe road, the one that will ensure that their already somewhat unstable alliance won’t be shattered into pieces; though lonely and filled with desperate longing).

Or he can express all of his feelings in one smooth (he hopes he can do it smoothly, but the chances are slight) and short, but soulful monolog. And would be rejected. Or even thrown out of Karazhan. Probably both. It is the road filled with danger at every turn, but if there’s a tiny chance that, maybe...

Khadgar thinks of himself at the gates of Karazhan, clinging to the letter in his hands. The fear of unknown grasping at his throat, the anticipation of meeting the most powerful mage of Azeroth, the joy of being chosen, the desire to brighten his future... He feels almost the same now; different matters, similar outcomes.

He feels like he has already decided what path he will follow and what option he will pick. 

* * *

They are sitting in the library, books scattered around them, torches lit and the heat from fireplace keeping the two of them warm, when Khadgar takes his chance.

Medivh’s first respond is a very cruel laughter. He throws his head back, his smile wide and predacious, his voice deep and rusty. Khadgar was expecting something like that, truly, but he is still taken aback and feels his chest tightening painfully. He keeps his face blank, though, his spine straight. The perfect image of a stoic man.

Then Medivh’s face softens slowly, and for a second he looks sad, despondent even, thoughtful. That expression is gone when he turns in his chair, facing Khadgar fully now, studying his apprentice’s face with gloomy eyes.

“Come again?” He asks cautiously.

“I think, I have feelings for you, sir. As if in love with you,” Khadgar repeats obediently, feeling numb under his master’s demanding gaze, but also determined. He made a decision to go down this road, he won’t stop midway now. The consequences are inevitable anyway.

“You think?”

“I’m sure, sir.”

“No, you’re not,” there’s stone in Medivh’s voice now, coarse and condescending.

“I’m sorry?”

“You are not in love with me nor sure of it. You are merely twisting your admiration and gratitude into some ephemeral concept of... Whatever you think it is. You youths are always exaggerating.”

“With all due respect, sir-”

“Please, Young Trust,” Medivh interrupts him impatiently. “You are smarter than this.”

“Why are you rejecting me in such a way? Questioning my sincerity? Are my words and determination not enough to believe? I’m not asking you to return my feelings, I just wanted to... I just wanted you to know,” Khadgar can hear himself pleading now, and bites his lip in self-disappointment, trying to keep his voice steady and even, failing miserably.

“You are expecting something from me anyway. By telling me this. I can’t give you an answer,” Medivh casts his eyes down, suddenly looking dejected and tired. He rubs his face with a palm up and down like a man desperately trying to hold himself together.

“I can’t give you anything,” he adds more quietly, as if speaking to himself. And then sharply looks up, directly at Khadgar again. “Besides any knowledge about magic that you’ll be able to catch in the limited time we have in our possession, of course.”

“Limited time?..”

“That’s enough questions for today, boy,” the Magus states, abruptly turning back to his abandoned research.

A dismissal, clearly.

Khadgar knew it would only end badly, still he chose this option. Leaving the library, he tells himself that he doesn’t regret it in a slightest. 

* * *

Almost nothing changes in their dynamics after that unfortunate evening, despite all Khadgar’s fears. Medivh still gives him the tasks, never tries to avoid him (at least, not any more than usual), still spends most of his time in his quarters, but descends the staircase to the dining room at usual hours.

Khadgar even feels like he got the best possible outcome and avoided the disaster that could become his life.

But still the longing comes, crashing him at the most unexpected moments.

Like when they are at the observatory, Medivh deep in his thoughts, looking at the southern lands of Azeroth depicted on the map, at the numerous small pins bedecking it, absentmindedly stroking the fine hairs of his beard with one hand.

Khadgar wants to joke about something silly to pull his master out of this tranquility and then suddenly thinks, what if it will be too much? What if it will set Medivh’s mood awry? What if the mere presence of his apprentice will remind Medivh of Khadgar’s unwanted confession and make him angry again?

These thoughts are foolish, illogical, but still they stop him from doing anything.

So he just stares at Medivh’s back, feeling miserable and unable to simply move or say a word, mute and paralyzed, pinned to place by his fear and diffidence, self-doubt and self-distrust binding his thoughts and wishes.

Sometimes he feels like he did the right thing. That Medivh deserved to know how deeply he had nested himself in his apprentice’s heart. That he expressed his most sacred thoughts, brought them to life and made them real, made Medivh hear him, made him understand what was plaguing his insides all this time.

But sometimes, when it seems like Medivh is less passionate now when he speaks with Khadgar or when he’s finishing his supper a bit too early, leaving Khadgar alone in dining room (and maybe Khadgar sees too much or sees not enough, but the impression is still there), he feels wrecked and afraid, and he wants nothing more than to turn back time.

* * *

He quickly learns to live with that uncertainty. After all, he’s never considered being Medivh’s apprentice an easy task. Even if sometimes he still feels beaten down and has sudden moments of unreasonable anxiety, there’re many more urgent matters to be concerned with. It’s not like the world has stopped moving, and it has never span around his heartsick self in the first place.

The whole affair with the demon hunting is a good reminder of all that.

* * *

Before Medivh started calling him by the true meaning of his name, trust had been a foreign concept for Khadgar. Not because it was hard to trust others, no, he simply didn’t put much thought to it. Trust, affection, faith — that’s something hard to grasp if you never experienced it yourself.

The thing with trust, Khadgar thinks, is that it’s very contagious. He’s always believed in his abilities, the sharp and quick clicks of his mind, the swiftness of his hands. But it is different when someone else, someone _he himself_ lived to fully and unendingly depend on, confides in him.

Medivh branded his trust in Khadgar from their first talk, taking his name and giving it back same but different, full of new value.

* * *

When nervous, Medivh tends to behave like a sleeping youth he still is somewhere deep underneath his old shell. He uses authority instead of reasoning, abruptly leaves in the middle of a conversation or hides his agitation under aggressively mocking remarks. Come to think of it, with age people often behave childishly again.

But Medivh isn’t old; he was made that way before his time. Utterly bitter, Khadgar thinks, his master barely even lived.

He watches the steady rhythm of Medivh’s breathing as his chest rises and falls again and again, and the sight is somehow soothing. It’s been three weeks since Medivh’s effort to banish the escaped demon from this world has led him into a coma.

He spends almost every evening here, reading letters to Medivh, or just looking at his motionless form. He thinks, he can cut every features of Medivh’s face, every curve of veins on his hands in stone with his eyes closed, — that well he knows him now.

When Sargeras appears, Khadgar is pinned to his place, petrified, until the very second the demon raises his clawed hand as if to attack Medivh. Then something snaps and Khadgar finds himself launching towards, letter cutter in his wrong hand, without any planning, acting on pure instincts. He doesn’t even care what happens next, the only beating thought in his head is the need to protect.

Medivh is chuckling and smiling at him afterwards, careless motion of his hand bashing away Khadgar’s worries.

“You should not be doing work here while I slept,” he chides and the only foolish thing Khadgar has to say, twisted into a question, is:

“I’m sorry, I thought... I thought it would be best to not leave you alone?”

He rises from the floor and finds his usual place in the chair near Medivh’s bed. Medivh is looking at him strangely, as if he had forgotten again who Khadgar is or how he looks. He searches Khadgar’s face for something, finding it unsettling, as it appears. Khadgar feels scrutinized as he often did at the beginning of their relationship; it’s both nostalgic and disappointing.

“Ever so loyal, my Young Trust,” Medivh murmurs lightly, as if speaking to himself again. “I wonder what it will do to you in the future.”

The turn of their conversation is disturbing, making Khadgar fidget in his sit. He knits his brows, thinking about an appropriate answer and comes just with:

“Only time will tell, master.”

“Time... You’d think age would give you answers,” Medivh’s face isn’t haggard and pale anymore, life shines in his eyes once again, voice both coarse and charming. His words are dim, though. “But all it can do is throw more questions your way.”

Absentmindedly, Khadgar takes Medivh’s hand in his own, like he often did during his watch beside master’s bed. He realizes his doings a moment later, but only clenches Medivh’s fingers tighter, feeling embarrassed heat creeping up his face, but refusing to let go.

“Questions can contain half an answer themselves, can’t they?”, Khadgar offers, smiling hesitantly, encouragement and anxiety mixing up in his voice.

And suddenly there’s such a painful regret on Medivh’s face, clearly ripping through all of his defenses, and he grasps Khadgar’s hand with his own, holding it tightly, almost desperately. Khadgar feels something inside of him breaking, like an old rusty wood, giving up under weight; the shock of Sargeras’ appearance, the building unrest during Medivh’s long slumber catching up with him; he lowers himself down and rests his forehead on their entwined hands.

“Please, don’t push me away again,” he whispers reverently. “Whatever the reason you’re doing it, please don’t.”

“Not the one to give up easily, are you, lad?” Medivh asks, and when Khadgar looks up he can see that rare honest smile on his face. The kind when he is only slightly curves the left side of his mouth.

“I passed all of your tests, you should’ve known”, Khadgar smiles in return, widely to the point of pain in his jaw, feeling hope rising from within him. 

* * *

The flow of time, as Medivh once told him, can be chaotic and unpredictable, if set by force that has no control over the other ones. Like bits of sand in the hourglass, falling free in no particular order. Strong affection, Khadgar thinks, is exactly the same. He stopped trying to rationalize and control its flow almost at the beginning; there’s no use. It is something he’s unable to formulate into a generic pattern. He lets it carry him with no regulations; all he does is observe and learn.

And by doing that, he feels full of power; he wants to share. 

* * *

Medivh is more cheerful the following days than ever before, the energy boiling through him like a hot string. He talks and acts as if everything is not enough. He also seems to seek Khadgar’s presence at any suitable moment. Khadgar does not mind it one bit.

(But sometimes it feels like Medivh is trying to steal time; like he’s going to leave soon. The thought is a troubling presence at the back of Khadgar’s mind, but he is too ecstatic to worry much and writes it down as the side effects of the recent coma.)

They spend days and evenings together, Medivh harsh on his duty to test Khadgar’s skill in spells and theory, always pushing limits and demanding full commitment.

Khadgar is marvelling at all the attention, single-mindedly devoting himself to his studies and to Medivh’s every request.

He restrains himself from touching his master during their studies; though he can’t stop looking, soaking in every mannerism and expression, every line on Medivh’s face.

But when his need to be as close to Medivh as he can gets the best of him, he cautiously reaches for Medivh’s hand to simply caress it, to put his longing in a tangible form. And Medivh lets him, doesn’t stop him or chide him for being too intrusive. Khadgar cherishes these moments.

One night he feels brave enough to put his forehead on Medivh’s shoulder and then just stands like that as still as possible, thrilled with delight. The other night Medivh slowly takes Khadgar’s face in his hands and looks at him with wandering eyes. Khadgar doesn’t think twice before leaning up and kissing him.

It’s the slightest of touches, just a press of skin to skin, but Khadgar’s heart is wild, beating uproariously in his ears. He is the first to break the kiss, too nervous to do more, and moves back a little to look at Medivh’s face. Medivh is smiling, but Khadgar can feel the unspoken sadness radiating from him. It’s unsettling, and to take this unwanted sorrow away, Khadgar kisses him again and again, short little pecks of lips. He’s so ravenous in this outburst that he almost loses his balance and has to lean on Medivh’s shoulders to keep himself steady. That makes Medivh crack a quiet laugh and steady him with warm hands on Khadgar’s waist. Lightheaded, Khadgar ought to feel embarrassed but the sadness is gone from his master’s eyes when he looks at him, so he doesn’t.

Under that stare Khadgar feels extremely open, vulnerable and at Medivh’s disposal, but at the same time secluded, safe and... guarded. He knows that all of his thoughts and feelings are clearly visible now and Medivh can read them like he reads one of those letters from the Order, he knows all clues and keys, easily deciphering all codes.

And he does. He touches Khadgar’s face with his fingers, starting from cheekbones, then moves to the line of his jaw, traces the contour of his lips with a thumb. His gaze warm and greedy, as if he’s searching for anything he can spot: hints of emotions, unspoken pleas or questions. It’s like Medivh is trying to know him as well as he can, wants to be able to predict his thoughts and desires. Because apparently, that’s the way Medivh is confident to communicate, because in that matter his body is much more capable in conversations then his words. He places two kisses on the thin skin of Khadgar’s eye lids, the lingering warmth of that touch stays with Khadgar for the rest of the evening.

* * *

He is so furious — _and_ _yes, jealous! —_ of this mysterious Emissary, granted the free pass in and out of Medivh’s room, when Khadgar himself was denied his master’s presence for several days now, and he’s perfectly aware that he is violating Medivh’s most needed privacy, but he  _must_ know what is happening in his chambers right now or his head would explode...

Of course the tower has its own vision on how to handle this delicate situation.

* * *

They laugh about it with Garona lately, sharing the cryptic coziness of Karazhan’s library and expressing their unending fondness for Medivh in separate but very similar way. Khadgar feels the heat creeping up his neck when he talks about his master’s affect on him, and his whole face is flush from the knowing half-smile that Garona gives him in return.

Then it all comes to downfall very quickly.

* * *

Betrayal can be an act of sordid selfishness or a deed of utter sacrifice, Khadgar thinks. It can be manipulated out of you, manipulated by you, it can be planned, can be done on the spur of the moment, can be swift and striking, or long coming, thorough and measured. It can be atoned. It can be forgiven. It can rip you apart. He doesn’t know what kind of betrayal Medivh is arranging. Does it even matter, if the mere fact is atrocious itself?

It does, Khadgar realizes. He is ready to understand.

He begs Medivh to give him an answer to why he brought the orcs to Azeroth. He asks once, twice, he would have asked a hundred times more for Medivh to give him _a reason,_ to show him that there is a different plan beneath the obvious, that all of it is just another clever move on the chess deck that the guardian set through his time, something that would save them and not bring them to an end. To give him anything _to hold on to_.

He begs, Garona a steady presence by his side, but he can feel her fear. He is afraid too. Terrified. No one’s trust should be violated this way.

Medivh doesn’t answer. 

* * *

The thing with faith, Khadgar realizes, is that you either have it full blown in your core, or you are stripped from it entirely. There’s no in-between. One can’t _almost_ believe in something, the uncertainty eats the faith away like a clothes moth, gnawing holes and tearing it apart. Faith should be unshakable, devoted and blind, to avoid any insecurities in its hardshell.

A fast and flexible mind rarely belongs to a faithful believer.

But perhaps, when trust is lost, faith is the answer. He knows that he can’t trust Medivh anymore (and the thought is abhorrent, like an enormous rotting maggot, swelling inside his chest), but he still has faith in him.

That faith is deaf to reason; as it should be. 

* * *

Before everything that happened under the tower of Karazhan, Khadgar had been a raging swirl of emotions: betrayal, fear, fury and the desire to make things right again were keeping him up and single-mindedly purposeful.

Now, now he feels serene, tranquil, calm. Devastatingly so. Washed out, like a coast after the night of powerful storm. He feels like a man stripped of all he held dear.

He is that man. An empty shell, a broken hourglass; he can move, he can think, he is aware of his surrounding, he’s cataloging everything that is happening around him. He still works perfectly, but that’s all he is now. An observer with a vacant stare.

He should be having that feeling of finality, the downing realization that something is gone forever, or will never leave, or will leave a permanent mark, or all of it at once. That unnerving and unique trepidation, like thoughts of inescapable death.

But in reality, he feels nothing.

He rests his weight on the shovel, his wrinkled hands aching and sore from hours of digging through the soil, and looks at the tower’s wall in front of him. Massive white stones that it is constructed of seem too bright, their pattern blurred, bringing tears to his tired eyes. Or that could be something else. Everything is pale now, he can’t focus. He clears his vision and tries to clear his mind.

He knows that now his place is beside Lothar in the battle that still awaits them, but where he truly feels he belongs — it’s underground, in the pit alongside with Moroes, Cook...

And Medivh.

“I’ve just buried you,” he says into silence, lifting his face to the ghost on the balcony. To this younger, calmer version of the one he killed mere hours ago.

“You made a sacrifice,” is the answer. Medivh’s voice (it  _is_  Medivh, Khadgar doesn’t even need the affirmation, he finds the connection between them still as strong and almost palpable as ever, like no demonic presence had ever tried to cut it out) is dull and distant, but to Khadgar it’s like he’s speaking right into his ears.

“Sacrifice,” the word is bitter on Khadgar’s lips. But this is the first thing he finally feels after the sword cut through Medivh’s flesh. Bitterness. Regret. Longing. And unbearable, spiking pain, cursing through all his aged body.

“We all must pay this price. And then, when we have the chance, we will start anew,” declares the fading vision of his master, and with that, Khadgar feels another one. Hope.


End file.
